


The Hideous Monstrosity

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunk Molly, Drunk Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Funny, Happy Ending, Secrets, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tiny bit of smutty-ishness, corsets, sort of drunk sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7785736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock snoops and gets a big surprise about Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hideous Monstrosity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/gifts).



> This is especially for OhAine, for your warm welcome to a newcomer, your generous and constant support and encouragement. Thank you!
> 
> And for all the other incredible writers in the Sherlolly ship - you've literally changed my life. Thank you!
> 
> I have been gifted some adorable artwork for this story from sweetheart Rebka18! Please go look! http://archiveofourown.org/works/7794484

Sherlock was not snooping. He never “ _snooped_ ”. He observed, and when he found something by observing, he _occasionally_ had to take action. Not always - but this situation required action. Real action.

The ugly steamer trunk was fitted snugly against the foot of the bed in Molly’s room. It was...actually _offensive_. Sherlock had never seen anything that was functional look quite so deplorably sad, as if the thing thought it wasn’t bad enough to actually have been _put_ _through_ the abuse it had suffered, it had to _look_ as if it had suffered much _worse_. Why on earth Molly kept it was a puzzle. 

It had to have something truly... _important_...in it. And if it was important to Molly, he had to know what it was. If he was going to be responsible for protecting her after Moriarty’s possible return, which included insisting that he be allowed to watch over her while she resided temporarily at Baker Street, he told himself he had to know as much as possible about her - not that he didn’t know almost literally everything about her already, but Molly was smart and she might have a few little secrets he hadn’t as yet ferreted out. It was entirely reasonable, he thought, to think she might have some vital clue squirrelled away in this trunk. After all, she did, at one time, have a...sort of...relationship with James Moriarty. One never knew from where the crucial piece of information could come.

The first opportunity he had to investigate the contents of the Hideous Monstrosity (as he was beginning to think of it) just ‘happened’ to be the same night Molly was having a girls’ night with Mary, guarded diligently by Mycroft’s watchdogs and Sherlock’s own. Even if his own watchdogs were strays, he had no doubt that they were up to the task and would keep a closer eye on Molly than Mycroft’s pedigreed bunch could ever do. And Mary herself was probably better than any of them.

Sherlock had no idea what a “girls’ night” might entail (he pictured Molly and Mary ensconced in a room at the Watson’s, plaiting each other’s hair and giggling and gobbling up crisps and swigging wine, while listening to the worst, most screechy popular music ever recorded, and watching ‘50 Shades of Purple’ - or whatever it was called - over and over…), but Molly had assured him she would be quite late returning. That should give him ample time to thoroughly plumb the Monstrosity’s depths and solve its mystery. 

Not that he truly expected to find anything. Not at all. 

But...one had to be _sure_.

Sherlock slowly turned the doorknob, moving as silently as he could through an old flat that creaked and knocked every few minutes no matter how quietly one tried to move, and just as slowly stepped into the room. He crept up on the Hideous Monstrosity - until he realised how completely ridiculous it was to creep up on an inanimate object. He then rolled his eyes at himself, heaved a deep sigh, and loudly stomped up to the ugly thing.

Oddly, he found it unlocked. The little padlock was hanging forlornly loose on its loop. He knelt down and slipped it free and laid it gently down on the floor beside him. And then he took hold of the Hideous Monstrosity’s lid and ever so slowly raised it. The stupid thing actually had the nerve to creak as he pushed its lid up as far as it would go, the hinges at each side so stiff he had to make some effort to get it up.

The top layer was a ratty old blanket, folded and tucked around whatever treasures lurked underneath. He carefully lifted a corner, and saw...what looked like a white cardboard box. Ever so slowly he folded the blanket over to the side, and discovered...more plain white cardboard boxes. There were about ten of them stacked neatly side by side, like Christmas gifts that had been stripped of their gaudy decorative paper but never opened. 

Sherlock frowned and stared at the boxes. This was not what he was expecting. A trunk like this, one so obviously battered and worn, should have things tossed in it willy-nilly. It should be filled with odd bits and strange ends that one had collected over years and negligently thrown out of sight into the maw of one’s Hideous Monstrosity, not neatly stacked, pristine white boxes.

He touched one of the boxes, then slipped his fingers underneath it and lifted it out. The box was not heavy but very obviously contained something, something that slid a bit against the edges of the box when he tilted it. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and placed the box in front of him. There were no clues on the outside of the box. It was maddeningly generic, simply a plain white box. It had been opened, however, apparently several times, as he noticed a slight wavery edge on one side, where someone’s fingers had been inserted to remove the top. 

After a few minutes, he gently placed his hands on each side of the top and slid it upward, then put it aside. There was tissue paper folded loosely around what looked to be a smallish piece of clothing. Sherlock lifted the edge of the tissue, and peeked under it. He saw satiny cream colored cloth and a piece of matching ribbon about two centimetres wide. 

His breath caught. His heart gave an extra thump or two. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t _possibly_ be…

He pulled back the tissue completely and…

It was. 

His mouth went suddenly dry while his heart ran amok, galloping wildly. He touched the creamy satin and his fingers shook. Slowly, carefully, almost reverently, he lifted the garment out of the box and stared at it.

A corset. All satin. Tied up the back with the silky matching ribbon. The demi-cups were overlaid with soft, intricately wrought floral lace. The waist nipped in and came to a rounded point in the middle of the front. He slid his fingers along the sides, feeling the delicate but steel-strong ribs and immediately saw them in his mind pressing snugly against Molly’s soft pale skin…

He laid the corset back inside the box, and covered it again with the tissue. Then he reached inside the Monstrosity and pulled out another box, this time opening it more quickly. 

A red one, this one covered all over in lace - with a black tie up the back. Under this one were matching black garters, black silk stockings and a pair of tiny black satin knickers. Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he blinked rapidly while his heart raced and his hands shook and his breathing quickened. Each box contained an exquisite variation - a black one embroidered with delicate flowers, a pale blue one with cups trimmed in tiny ruffles - ten in all, each one a work of art. 

All this time. All these _years_ and he never knew. It was almost as if the universe had played a giant trick on him, a cruel cosmic joke. Here was sweet, mousey little Molly Hooper, a dedicated, brilliant pathologist, wearing baggy trousers, baggy jumpers, baggy _everything_ …

Sherlock ran the silky ties of a pale apricot colored corset through his fingers, and mused. When and where did she wear these? For they _had_ been worn. Some of them still had the faintest traces of Molly’s most beloved perfume on them, the perfume she only wore on special occasions - 

When the image finally clicked in his brain, he felt his face grow hot. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned as he pressed them tightly together, his brows drew down in a furious frown.

No. It wasn’t possible. Surely not! 

Sherlock stood quickly, and paced around the room, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The idea that Molly - _his_ pathologist - had paraded about in front of...of... _Meat_ _Dagger..._ wearing any of these, was simply intolerable. It was bad enough imagining her that way with any other man, but with _Meat_ _Dagger_?! 

He finally forced himself to stop pacing. He took a deep breath, ruffled his hair and went back to the Monstrosity. He placed all of the boxes back in it, covered them with the ratty blanket (which also, strangely, smelled faintly of Molly’s perfume) and pulled down the lid. He slipped the little padlock back through the loop, remembering not to click it closed. Then he went through the door, closed it behind him, trotted downstairs into his kitchen, reached up behind the years-old biscuit tins - each of them containing only one or two stale and/or moldy biscuits - and pulled down a bottle of whisky. The bottle was about half full, enough for his purpose. He didn’t bother with a glass, but went to his chair, opened the bottle and took a hearty swig. He wasn’t in the habit of drinking, not since his uni days (his last bout on John’s stag night was proof enough of that); the bottle had been sitting there since he’d floated off the roof of Bart’s. He was irrationally glad he didn’t have to go out and get something. 

Corsets. Sherlock’s fondness for the late Victorian and Edwardian eras had taken the form of a fixation on corsets. He loved them. Learning about the layers of dressing for women of those eras, he had come to associate them with everything erotic and sexual. Finding his Uncle Derwood’s collection of Victorian pornography in Derwood’s attic while exploring one summer (and filching a few pictures) had sealed this association in his mind forever. He took pains to hide it, although it was no secret to the young women at Madame Lorraine’s, who were often gifted with special costumes he brought them on his not-so-regular visits (well...perhaps more regular than he liked to admit to himself; it was all gratis, after all, since he had rescued Lorraine from her difficulty with a religious zealot bent on ruining her. His fee took the form of free access to her girls whenever he was ‘in the mood’, which turned out to be more often than anyone would imagine.) 

He took another pull from the whisky bottle and his mind drifted back to Molly. He had so often imagined her dressed - or undressed - the way the women were in Derwood’s pictures. He had had plans, ideas, when he returned from being “dead”, plans and ideas which died quickly that night when he had seen the ring on her finger. But the images of her in his head had not died; those had continued, often interfering with his visits to Lorraine’s (picturing her in his head while with one of those women brought things to a quick and abrupt end more often than not), making him edgy and impatient - and careless at times. 

But she wasn’t with Meat Dagger anymore. She wasn’t with anyone, hadn’t been since their breakup. He simply hadn’t had time to focus on her (and since the infamous Lab Slaps, he thought she probably was glad of that) with all the Magnussen business and now this Moriarty thing. 

Sherlock frowned into the whisky bottle before taking another sip. He had to face it; no matter what he felt for Molly or wanted from her (or anyone else, for that matter), there was always going to be something in his work that interfered, something crucial or dangerous, some bit of deviltry that would hang over the relationship and make it uneasy, if not unworkable. Would that be fair to her? 

Of course not. He wasn’t so socially ignorant that he couldn’t understand that. He knew she still loved him. The Lab Slaps had proved it; she wouldn’t have been so angry if she hadn’t still cared. He’d thought he was resigned to just being “friends” - as difficult as that was - until tonight when everything ( _everything_!) had been reawakened by the sight of those corsets, the thought of her in them, and the incredible surge of jealousy (yes, Sherlock, admit it, that’s what it was) thinking about her wearing them for someone else. 

By the time he’d finished the last of the whisky, he’d slipped into a slightly tipsy moroseness, feeling sorry for himself (listening to the whiny voice in his head moaning “ _why_ can’t I have Molly, _why_ can’t it happen?”), feeling put upon, deprived, as if the universe had picked him out purposely to use as a punching bag, to trip him up and take everything away from him…

He felt the pressure of self-pitying tears building just as the door snicked open and Molly half-danced, half-staggered into the room. 

“Oh! Sherlock. Hi! I was just…” She stopped when she saw the whisky bottle dangling loosely in his hand, the look on his face so sad it made her insides clench with panic. She ran to him and dropped on her knees in front of him.

“What is it, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” 

Her worried expression, the concern in her voice were more than he could bear. A tear ran down his face, then another, and his breath hitched in a sob. 

Molly leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “Oh, oh no! Sherlock, what is it? Please tell me!” Her voice quavered as if she was about to cry herself. 

Sherlock swallowed, stared at her, let the empty bottle slip out of his hand to the floor. 

“You…” he said, his voice thick with drunken drama, “It’s just...you.” He leaned forward a little, pulled his arm from under her hand and awkwardly tried to touch her face, succeeded in dropping his hand heavily on her shoulder. He was a bit more drunk than he’d thought, although not nearly as drunk as on John’s stag night. Just heavily tipsy and full of gloom. The tears didn’t help, as they blurred everything and made it hard to focus. 

Molly was frowning now, not quite so sober herself, puzzling over what he’d said. 

“Me? What me? Why?”

Sherlock managed to get his hand on her face, and began leaning forward. What he did was push Molly backwards at the same time and they both fell a little sideways, Molly landing on her side, Sherlock landing half on top of her. He slid off until he was lying on his side facing her, their bodies touching here and there, Molly’s hands against his chest. They stared at each other for a moment, blinking. 

“What did you mean, me?”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘You’. What did you mean? And why are you drunk? And crying?”

Now that they were on the floor in a more than slightly drunken puddle, neither of them was inclined to move. 

“Oh. Uh. Hm.” The tears had stopped and been replaced with extreme gladness that Molly was here with him and that they had managed to position themselves this way. His lips quirked in a half-smile and he blinked at her some more. 

“I’m...glad you’re here.” The words were only slightly slurred.

“Oookay. But then why were you crying?” Molly’s voice was very soft, her words a bit slurred too. Her hands were still against his chest and she could feel his heart beating against them, could feel each breath he took. This distracted her from her question as she felt heat begin to coil in her belly, became conscious of his leg resting between hers. 

“Monsricy. In your room.” 

“What’s a monsricy?”

Sherlock grinned at her, then pulled his hand up from where it had been resting on her side and traced her lips with his finger. 

“Mon. Stros. Ity. Big ugly trunk.”

“What? My trunk? What…”

“Shhh.” Sherlock put his hand on her shoulder and pushed until Molly rolled onto her back. He scooted closer to her, pressing against her side, propped himself up on his elbow so that he could look down into her face. He traced her brows with his finger, drew it lightly down her nose, traced her lips again. Then he leaned down and very lightly kissed the corner of her mouth. 

She couldn’t help it. The little moan was out of her before she could stop it, and she laid her hand on his cheek, turning his head just enough…

It surprised both of them, breaking through the soft haze of the alcohol, the intensity sharp and demanding. It snaked through their bodies, sparking something more than either of them had suspected was there. His mouth was hot, burning her skin. Her hands gripped him through his clothes, insistent. Bit by bit they found flesh, cloth disappearing like magic, opening them wide to each other. Whispers and moans mingled in the air around them, cocooning them in a web of want, need, pressing them together, until he entered her with a deep groan almost like a sob, whispering her name over and over as he moved in her. She pushed up against him, wanting him deeper, sliding her hands over his skin and grasping as if she would pull his entire body inside her, and it wouldn’t be enough. Her cries were sharp, rising until they reached a scream, and they shattered together at the sound, slipping into dark, then light, then dark again, slowly and sweetly floating down to rest. 

Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning, still twined together, snoring faintly. She smiled, shook her head, left the tea tray on the table and went downstairs to call Mary. 

*****

Sherlock woke to a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and the warmth of Molly curled against his side. Her head was on his chest and she had drooled a little on him, which made him grin, despite his mouth and head. Somehow they had managed to pull the throw off John’s chair, so only parts of him were cold. Molly seemed to be well covered. 

It seemed the choice had been made for them. They would cope or they wouldn’t. But it was all out in the open now, at least. If he had known a little alcohol was all it took, he would have done something about it on his own a long time ago. 

Molly stirred, but didn’t move away from him. She tilted her head back and looked up at him, then smiled and snuggled closer. 

“Molly.” His voice sounded as dry as his mouth felt. He swallowed and tried again. “Molly, I...have to tell you something.”

He could feel her tense, felt her muscles tighten. He slid his arm along her back and held her tightly, trying to reassure her, though he knew, sadly, with their history, that it would take more than a squeeze. 

“Last night...I sort of went in your room and looked in your trunk and I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have but I found your...your things, your corsets, and…”

Molly pushed herself up and away from him, looked down at him, frowning. 

“Why? Why did you think you had to look in my trunk?” Suddenly her eyes widened, her mouth made an O, and she grabbed all the throw and pulled it around her, leaving him lying there naked and quite cold. He sat up, looked around and found his shirt and pulled it on. 

“You went through my corsets?” Strangely, she didn’t seem as angry as she seemed puzzled, and then suddenly she grinned at him. “That must have been quite a shock.”

Sherlock blinked at her. 

“Well. Yes. It was...surprising.”

They stared at each other, Molly still grinning, Sherlock looking a bit lost. 

“You’re not upset with me for...going through your things?”

“Well, Sherlock, you know you shouldn’t have. And you could have asked me if you wanted to know what was in the trunk…”

“The Hideous Monstrosity…”

“What?”

“That’s what I was calling it. The trunk. I named it the Hideous Monstrosity.”

“You...you named my trunk?” Molly tried, she really tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway in a snort, and then loud giggles that she couldn’t stop. She balled the throw in her fist and pressed it against her mouth and rocked back and forth, until Sherlock frowned at her and reached over to hold her still. 

“Stop laughing. I want to talk about the corsets.”

For some reason this set Molly off again, and she shrieked and fell over sideways, laughing so hard she was gasping for breath. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He looked around and found his pants and pulled them on. Then he spotted the tea tray and realized that Mrs. Hudson had been in...oh, this was getting worse by the minute. He sighed. 

Molly’s hysterics had subsided into the occasional sniffly giggle. She wiped her eyes then got to her feet, wrapping herself up in the throw. 

‘Oh good, tea.” 

Sherlock fixed them both a cup, then searched for his trousers, which he found under his chair. He found one sock, gave up looking for the other, finally sat on the sofa and drank his tea. Molly came and sat beside him. 

“So. What did you think of the corsets?” 

“They’re...quite beautiful.”

Molly looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You think so?”

“Mmhm. I happen to...like corsets. Very much.” Sherlock sipped his tea, looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye. 

Molly beamed at him. 

“So do I. I discovered them several years ago. There’s a shop that makes them to order and...I sort of fell in love with them. They’re actually quite comfy to wear. And they feel so...I don’t know...sensual? Sort of like you’ve got this lovely secret when you’re wearing one and nobody knows…” 

Sherlock was staring at her, his mouth dropped open in surprise. “You mean...you wear them under your...your...ordinary clothes? Not just for special occasions?”

“Well, not every day. But sometimes. And the ones you found aren’t the only ones I have. Those ones are for dress up. I have others that I wear with my ‘ordinary’...Sherlock, are you okay?”

He had put his tea on the table and was staring straight ahead, one hand on his chest, the other gripping the edge of the sofa seat. Suddenly he turned to look at her, his face very serious. 

“I think we should shower and then you should...model one of these corsets for me. Maybe all of them.”

He held out his hand to her and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “And then...we should probably go back to bed.” He kissed her, then scooped her up and carried her through the kitchen and down the hall, his one bare foot slapping against the floor. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The usual disclaimers apply: I do not own these characters, I do not profit from this work of fiction, etc.


End file.
